


just around the corner

by thedevilchicken



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Alcohol, Drunk Sex, Forced Orgasm, Forced to enjoy it, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-02 21:05:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11517456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Sometimes, Leon almost thinks Krauser might be watching him.





	just around the corner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [higuchi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/higuchi/gifts).



Krauser's dead. Leon knows that. 

The thing is, sometimes he'll be on a job, he'll be lying in bed, he'll be taking a shower, he'll be somewhere, _anywhere_ , and he'll have this feeling like he's being watched. He guesses he probably is most of the time, who knows, so many agencies have a vested interest these day and then there's Umbrella on top of that, but specifically, when it comes down to it, he feels like _Krauser's_ watching. He remembers the weight of his stare. 

And the thing is, the _real_ thing is, he knows it can't be Krauser 'cause he saw him die. But he still feels it and just for a moment, till he puts the lid on it, it takes him back. 

He'd like to think the only place it takes him back to is Spain. He'd like to think it's the whole Ganado thing, and when he feels like Krauser's watching him it's the knife fight he remembers. And hey, that's even true, part of the way, because he _does_ remember it - he remembers the sharp edge of the blade in Krauser's hand as it nicked his cheek. He remembers the way his heart pounded and the jarring shriek of steel on steel. He remembers the bulk of Krauser's body over him, angling the blade toward his throat, the strain in his muscles as he fought for his life, the ridges of the metal pressed hard into his back. 

He doesn't know if he believes Krauser would've killed him if Ada hadn't made one of her oh-so-timely entrances. Okay, no: he believes Krauser would've killed him, he just doesn't know if he believes he would've done it right away. He'd like to think his death was all that Krauser wanted and even then it was because his death was Wesker's order, but there's times, in his seat on a plane flying out to his next assignment, in bed at night, in a tent in the middle of a jungle, when he thinks maybe Krauser wanted more. History would suggest that's true. 

When ht thinks about Krauser, what's in his head half the time is Operation Javier and everything that happened after, much as he'd like to believe that's not it at all. He's thinking about Krauser's injured arm and what they both knew that would mean for his career, and a stupid night in a hotel room someplace still in Spain but pretty far from all of the Ganado bullshit where they both drank too much though they knew it was a dumb idea. 

When Krauser leaned over the table and he pushed back Leon's hair with his good hand, he should've stopped him but he's got to admit he felt intrigued. When Leon staggered to his feet and Krauser followed, when Krauser shoved him up against the nearest hotel room wall, he _really_ should've stopped him 'cause he could see exactly where it was that Krauser wanted it to lead and screw that, Leon was way too drunk to really want it. When Krauser kissed him, all bourbon and smoke, he should've stopped him, and that time he tried it; he tried to push him back but Krauser wouldn't go and he was stronger than Leon was even with the injury and he was way less drunk somehow than Leon was though they'd matched each other glass for glass and before he knew it, shit, there were cuffs around his wrists and he had nothing he could've picked them with even if his hands had been remotely steady. They weren't. 

"I've never seen another agent looked half as good as you do," Krauser said, like that was a compliment, with the bulk of his body holding Leon to the wall, and they way the room felt like a fairground ride he knew if he'd've struggled he'd just've fallen flat on his face. He stayed still. He closed his eyes, feeling his hands start to turn numb caught between his back and the faded wall paint. 

"Are all you STRATCOM guys this pretty, huh?" Krauser asked, leaning closer, his mouth brushing the stubble at Leon's jaw. "Is that how they choose you? Do they style your hair like that on purpose?"

Leon sighed, and he knows he meant to say something even if he's not totally sure _what_ it was he meant to say. But Krauser traced Leon's bottom lip with the rough pad of the thumb of his good hand. He leaned closer and he sucked on Leon's bottom lip and grazed it with his teeth. 

"They teach you how to fuck, too?" he asked, his voice a half-desperate thing, a kind of rasp right by Leon's ear. "They train you for _every_ eventuality? They make you practice multiple techniques?" His hand went down and he palmed the crotch of Leon's pants. "Did they train you for my cock, Leon?"

Maybe the whole thing would've been laughable under any other circumstances. Under the circumstances, it really wasn't. 

"Stop," Leon said. And what he meant to say after that was _they trained me to handle small arms, not small dicks_ , or maybe just a straightforward _fuck you, Jack, you fucking sociopath_ , or any of a hundred other things, but what he said again was, "Stop."

"What if I don't want to stop?" Krauser said, with a bitter twist to his voice. "They teach you to lead a guy on, too?"

Leon made a shitty attempt at barging him away with his shoulder, but Krauser just sidestepped and swept him down onto the floor where he landed with a dull fucking thud and a bright stab of pain right through his arm and neck. Leon tried to drag himself back up but stumbled and Krauser was there anyway to slap him straight across the face and to kick him right back down again. 

"You're a tease, Leon," Krauser said. "You fucking _elite agents_ are all the same, getting a guy riled up then no goddamn follow-through. You know what we do with teases where I'm from?"

Leon clenched his jaw, his cheek pressed awkwardly to the carpet. He was pretty sure he knew exactly what the answer was. And maybe he could've struggled but he was too damn drunk to even stand up straight. When Krauser unbuckled Leon's belt from behind him and yanked down his pants to his knees, he tried to struggle and he told him _no_ , and even with Krauser down to one arm, he failed miserably at making him stop what he was doing. After that, he figured there was no point fighting it. He said _no_ , he said _don't_ , he cursed, and he strained, and he sure as hell didn't make it easy, but Krauser spat between Leon's cheeks and rubbed the rim of his hole with his thumb. He said _you understand that I don't want this?_ and he said _are you deaf or just stupid?_ but Krauser rubbed at Leon's hole with the head of his dick and made him grimace there against the floor. 

"Fuck, you're so hot," Krauser said, his voice sounding right up on the edge of cracking he was so turned on, like that was another one of those fucked-up compliments. He pressed forward just a fraction and Leon felt himself start to give against the pressure. "Jesus, Leon. Tell me again how you don't want it."

"I don't!" Leon said. "Jesus Christ, are you even listening to me? How many ways do I have to say it?"

Krauser groaned. He pushed forward. He pushsed inside him. He penetrated him in short, sharp thrusts, inching in till he was as far as he could go, pushed up tight to Leon's ass, and Leon, for his part, the room still tilting and spinning and falling down around him, was fucking appalled by it. He was galled by it. The length and the girth and the friction of Krauser's big dick in him burned as his body stretched against his will to take him and Krauser fucked him, slowly, groaning lowly, as he reached around to wrap his hand around the length of Leon's cock. 

He didn't want it. Krauser found him flaccid because really, honest to God and hand on heart, he didn't want it. He wanted to sleep off his dumb inebriation and the inevitable hangover to follow and shit, maybe in the morning or maybe in the afternoon once he'd stopped feeling kinda like he was about to die he might've had some kind of a passing interest in Jack Krauser. He might've made out with him in the shower with Krauser's fingers all tangled up in his hair once they'd both brushed their teeth and they might've brought each other off under the spray - hell, Leon might've even felt inclined to get down on his knees and blow him. But there was no way he would've gone all the way, not half-clothed and handcuffed on his knees on the floor getting a goddamn friction burn on his cheek with every thrust of Krauser's hips. There was no way he would've let Krauser fuck him, and jeez, not bareback using spit for lube. He wouldn't have done it willingly. Sober, he would've fucked him up for trying.

But Krauser had his good hand wrapped around Leon's flaccid cock and after that it really didn't matter what he wanted. Leon's body responded. His skin prickled with it, the back of his neck and the line of his spine, and his cock filled and hardened against Krauser's palm. He clenched his jaw and he squeezed his eyes shut and he told himself a physiological response meant nothing but fuck, Krauser knew what he was doing. He rubbed at the sensitive spot just underneath the head and Leon fucking whimpered. He squeezed his balls and Leon could've groaned out loud. He wasn't sure he didn't. 

Then Krauser went still inside him and for a second Leon thought maybe that was it but no, no; he stayed there, shoved up deep and stuff inside him, as he stroked Leon's cock and Leon hated it and he hated himself and he fucking hated Krauser above all of that but he pushed against that hand and he pushed back against that cock till he was fucking himself on it, on _him_. He couldn't stop himself. He couldn't stop moving, telling himself he just wanted it to finish, and maybe it would with _his_ finish, and oh God, oh _God_ , his hips jerked and his muscles clenched and he came in twitching, aching spasms over Krauser's hand, his asshole pulling tight around him like somehow it hadn't quite been tight enough before. 

Then Krauser moved again and Leon kept still and he kept taut and he didn't empty his alcohol-filled stomach all over the 70s-chic carpet even though no one would've known the difference and with a low groan and a few last deep thrusts, Krauser finished himself off, too. He came inside Leon, disgusting as Leon felt that was. He caught his breath slowly while he was still softening inside him and then, finally, he pulled out. He pulled the key from his pocket and he opened up the cuffs. 

Leon remembers hitting him square across the jaw, and he remembers Krauser going down like a goddamn ton weight. He remembers the argument that followed, the _you wanted it!_ and the _how the hell could you think that meant I wanted it?_ He remember spitting in his face and Krauser scowled and if either one of them had been fit for a fight, they've have fought. As it was, Krauser grabbed his duffel and he left, muttering something under his breath about prissy STRATCOM guys, and Leon rubbed his wrists where the cuffs had bitten down and he locked the door behind him as the room started to tilt again. He'd sworn off alcohol once before, after his one and only day on the job with the Raccoon City PD, but jeez, he remembers thinking this time he really meant it. Less than a year later, he heard Krauser had died; he took a drink then for old times' sake. 

Sometimes, he'll be working, he'll be firing a gun or he'll be breaking a neck or he'll have his knife in his hands and he'll get the creeping, gnawing sense he's being watched. That was the way it felt that whole damn mission there in Spain with Krauser. That was the way it felt through that whole thing with Saddler, like he knew somehow Krauser was there. It feels the same sometimes but he knows it can't be him. 

He wishes he could say all he thinks of is the knife fight, the adrenaline, the blood on the blade of his knife. He wishes he could say all he thinks of is the hotel that night, his anger and disgust and mistrust, but he thinks of something else besides that. He thinks of what might have happened if Ada hadn't been there. He thinks of Krauser's hands and Krauser's mouth, of him pushing his pants down over his hips, of the jut of his erection. He thinks of Krauser fucking him, how the Plaga had made him stronger, how he maybe couldn't've resisted. He thinks of it while he touches himself at night, and he hates himself for it. He doesn't want it. He never did. 

Sometimes he feels like Krauser's watching him but he knows he can't be 'causer Krauser's dead. He watched him die. He's gone. 

The thing is, Leon knows these days death just doesn't mean that much. 

One day, he'll turn a corner and Krauser will be waiting. All Leon can do is hope he's ready.


End file.
